


And I Was The Boy Who Was Lucky

by chamel



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Banter, Bets & Wagers, Denial of Feelings, Drinking, Feelings Realization, Flirting, Fluff, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Getting Together, Horse Racing, Hot Weather, Ice Cream, Idiots in Love, Illya POV, Kissing, M/M, Mission Fic, Napoleon Whump, Protective Illya, Snark, Stupid Boys, Sunburn, and manages to find trouble, more like drinks as a metaphor for love, the team goes to the KY Derby for a mission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:01:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26143015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chamel/pseuds/chamel
Summary: Napoleon was, on the other hand, of course prepared for the weather. He’d acquired a bright new seersucker suit that he wore like he’d dressed in the quintessentially southern fabric since he was a child. The pale blue stripes brought out the blue of his eyes, even from across the covered deck. Not that Illya had told him such a thing, because, for one, he was sure Napoleon already knew and had in fact planned it that way, and for two, as much as he secretly enjoyed watching his partner preen under his praise, the last thing he needed was Napoleon getting anyideasabout Illya’s feelings. Because there was nothing to getideasabout, truly.(A story about hot weather, cool drinks, horse racing, luck, and long-shot wagers that pay off)
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin & Napoleon Solo & Gaby Teller, Illya Kuryakin/Napoleon Solo
Comments: 29
Kudos: 278





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I need to come to the terms that any "mission fic" I write in this fandom is going to get way longer than I intended. I thought this would be a short silly fic about the Kentucky Derby, but then it turned into a longish silly fic about the Derby and much more. You can blame the fact that the postponed 2020 Derby is coming up in a couple weekends, and this displaced KY native has been feeling nostalgic about Derbys past and juleps at the track (but not the KY weather). The second half of this is very nearly completed, so it won't be too long before it goes up.
> 
> The horses mentioned in this fic were actual race horses, although having them race against each other is an anachronism. The title of this fic comes from the song _Kentucky Waltz_ by the father of bluegrass, Bill Monroe.

Illya had not expected Kentucky to be this hot in May.

Oh, sure, he’d heard the song about how the ‘sun shines bright’ and all that—Napoleon had played it for them to get them _in the mood for the mission_ , in his words—but the sun shines bright lots of places. It was just that in most of those places it wasn’t also unbearably humid. He had been assured by multiple well-meaning southerners that this was both a hotter-than-usual Derby, and also that it wasn’t really _that_ hot, in the grand scheme of things. Illya made a mental note to never come to the American south in July if he could help it.

Napoleon was, on the other hand, of course prepared for the weather. He’d acquired a bright new seersucker suit that he wore like he’d dressed in the quintessentially southern fabric since he was a child. The pale blue stripes brought out the blue of his eyes, even from across the covered deck. Not that Illya had told him such a thing, because, for one, he was sure Napoleon already knew and had in fact planned it that way, and for two, as much as he secretly enjoyed watching his partner preen under his praise, the last thing he needed was Napoleon getting any _ideas_ about Illya’s feelings. Because there was nothing to get _ideas_ about, truly.

His partner was currently chatting with their mark about the day’s races, trading tips and gossip about trainers and jockeys. Mr. Pedro Batista was a racing enthusiast and horse owner, and although he didn’t have any horses running in this year’s Derby, he had entries in other races that day. He also had quite a few fingers in Venezuela’s drug trade and had shown some oblique interest in destabilizing Latin American governments, so UNCLE had sent them to gather intel in a rather low-key way, making contact with some covers that might be useful in the future. As Napoleon knew considerably more about horse racing than either Gaby or Illya he’d done most of the contacting to this point. Illya didn’t want to think about how much money Napoleon had lost that day already on wagers, and there were still hours left until the main event.

Tugging futily at his collar, Illya slipped his sunglasses on and walked out into the relentless sun to stand at the balcony rail next to Gaby. She was leaning on one elbow, and even though she was using her program to fan herself she seemed rather unaffected by the weather. Perhaps it was the absurdly large hat she was wearing, which managed to throw a cross-hatched shade over her entire body. She grinned up at him from behind her equally absurdly large sunglasses.

“Should you really be out here, Illya?” she scolded playfully. “The sun really does not agree with you. You’re going all pink.”

Illya hummed in disapproval at that. He hadn’t had a sunburn since Barcelona, and wasn’t keen on getting another, but the breeze out in the open was such a relief he couldn’t bring himself to care.

“Maybe I need a hat,” he replied wryly, allowing a small smile at the riot of feathers and flowers currently residing on top of her head.

Gaby laughed at that, light and open, and Illya let his smile broaden. The mission was a bit of a break after a long, harrowing stretch in the Balkans that he’d rather forget most of. He could tell his partners felt the same way, could see the tension slowly leaving their bodies even as he felt it slowly ebbing from his.

The horses were beginning to walk out onto the track toward the gate, and Gaby ceased fanning for a moment to open the program to the next race. The page was full of numbers and figures that he barely understood, having not spent any time at all thinking about horse racing before. He’d also not paid attention when Napoleon had spent the morning explaining all the statistics to them, but it appeared that Gaby had, or was doing a good imitation of understanding them.

“I’m gonna go get a bet in,” she told him. “Any picks?”

“You know I’m not much for gambling, Chop shop.”

“Suit yourself,” she said with a shrug before she turned and disappeared back under the awning toward the betting windows.

Illya lingered, even though he knew he should follow her back to the shade. A drop of sweat trailed it’s way down his throat to his already damp collar, making him seriously consider ditching the tie. That kind of thing was probably Not Done in Millionaire’s Row, though, so instead he stood and sweltered a bit more as he watched the horses idly.

“You’re in danger of actually becoming the _Red_ Peril, there,” Napoleon teased as he appeared next to Illya on the balcony, squinting against the sun.

Illya frowned at his partner, who looked unfairly cool and collected. He could at least take comfort in the fact that a few of Napoleon’s dark curls were making their escape from his pomade in the substantial humidity. The one that always flopped down onto his forehead at the slightest provocation was well on its way and Illya rapidly quashed the sudden irrational urge to help it along in its escape. Napoleon swirled the brown liquor in his tumbler thoughtfully as he stared down at the horses now entering the gate.

“Scotch in this weather, Cowboy?”

Napoleon smirked up at him and took a sip. “Bourbon is for all weather, Peril. And this one is particularly excellent. Here,” he said suddenly, turning slightly and pressing a slim, icy glass into Illya’s hand, “drink this. It’ll cool you down.”

Illya regarded it skeptically. The drink looked mostly like crushed ice with a few sprigs of greenery sticking out the top, but it was blissfully cold against his skin; he had to stop himself from pressing the glass to his forehead. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Napoleon watching him expectantly, so he took a tentative sip through the straw. The liquid that flowed over his tongue was sweet and sharp, an icy blast of mint balanced by the bite of the bourbon. He stared at it, frowning.

“What is it?”

“Mint julep. Do you like it?” Napoleon asked.  
  
It was exactly the question he’d been trying unsuccessfully to figure out the answer to as he stood there. He looked up at Napoleon, brow furrowed. “I don’t know.”

Napoleon laughed. “It _is_ a bit of an acquired taste. Official drink of the Derby, though, so you’re obligated to drink at least one.”  
  
“Why aren’t you having one, then?”

“I’ve already had three, Peril.” He gestured with his tumbler. “And this was recommended by our friend, so I thought I should give it a go. He does have good taste, in bourbon at the very least.”

Illya sipped at his julep again, still trying to figure out if he liked it. The way the frosty liquid slid down his throat was remarkably cooling, he had to admit. Not to Napoleon, though, who was already grinning at him far more triumphantly than he had a right to. As he looked at his partner again he noticed something bulging in one of Napoleon’s jacket pockets that he hadn’t seen before. It was the wrong size for a weapon, not that Napoleon would be carrying anything so obviously on him. Illya knew he had a knife or two stashed on his person, despite the fact that they didn’t expect trouble today.

“What is that?” Illya asked, gesturing to the lump.

Napoleon glanced down at himself. “Oh!” he replied, giving the lump a gentle pat. “One of my julep glasses. Souvenir.”

“Really, Cowboy, stealing glassware now? You’re not even hiding it.”

“They’re _designed_ as souvenirs, Peril. You can take them home with you. See?” He gestured around the deck behind them, and Illya turned to follow his hand. Sure enough, quite a few of the people were sporting similar julep-glass-shaped lumps in their pockets. “Careful where you stash yours,” Napleon added, “or people will think the heat is getting to you in more ways than one.”

Illya rolled his eyes and frowned at him. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Oh?” Napoleon smirked. “The heat must be addling my brain. Or perhaps I’m just distracted by what your sweat has done to your shirt.”

Illya had been standing with one hand on his hip, pushing back the front of his jacket to catch the breeze, and now Napoleon’s eyes dropped to travel suggestively across his chest and abdomen. Looking down at himself, Illya could see that he was beginning to sweat through his undershirt and cause the button-down to cling in all the wrong places. He huffed and pulled the jacket shut again, mourning the loss of the breeze as he fastened it. Illya didn’t know how it was possible that his cheeks could feel hotter than they already did in the sun, and yet somehow he felt blood rush to his face. At least his incipient sunburn was likely to cover it.

“I’m going back to the shade,” Illya muttered, but before he could leave Gaby came bounding over to them, wrapping one arm around each of their waists as she slipped between them.

“You can’t go yet,” she protested, “they’re about to run.”

Napoleon looked down at the slip of paper clutched her hand. “Who’s your horse, Gaby?”

“I couldn’t decide,” she admitted, looking slyly up at them. “So I placed bets on both Light Fingers and Soviet Star.”

That drew a barking laugh from Napoleon and a smile he couldn’t quite suppress from Illya. What were the odds? He carefully extracted the program from Gaby’s grasp to look at the colors of the two horses: green and pale blue for Light Fingers, red and yellow for Soviet Star. Easy enough to watch for in the reasonably small field. At the time of printing Soviet Star had far longer odds than the other horse, which was nearly the favorite in the field.

“What about you, Cowboy?” Illya found himself asking. “Who did you bet on?”

To his surprise, Napoleon pressed his lips together cagily. “I’d rather not say. Bad luck, you know.”

Illya just rolled his eyes and looked down at the field, suddenly more interested in this race than he had been all day. “Light Fingers, then,” he murmured, not bothering to look for Napoleon’s reaction.

“I don’t bet based on names,” Napoleon replied, drawing himself up haughtily.

“ _And they’re off!_ ” was announced over the loudspeaker before he could think of a retort, and the three of them were thoroughly sucked into this race.

The beginning of the race was a conflagration of colors, and it was difficult to pull the individual horses out of the fray. They sorted themselves before the first curve, though, and Illya could see the green and blue of Light Fingers’ silks in the front. The red and yellow of Soviet Star was somewhere in the middle of the pack, but as they rounded the second curve the horse seemed to break from the mire and surge slowly forward.

Illya could hardly remember how he had gotten to the point where he was vociferously cheering on ‘his’ horse, but he thought the julep combined with the heat probably had something to do with it. No wonder they were served so liberally at the event; they no doubt contributed to a large number of the bets placed that day. The horses rounded the third curve and Soviet Star was still creeping forward, inexorably toward the lead set by Light Fingers. The other horses seemed to fall away, one by one, until, unbelievably, it was a two horse race between Gaby’s choices. As the entered the final stretch they were neck-and-neck, each gaining on the other and then falling back for a moment, a constant give and take that left Illya completely breathless.

From their position they had a good view of the finish line; good enough that when the horses crossed the line there was no doubt about who had won, despite the fact that the track called it an official photo finish. At the last minute Soviet Star had surged forward, eclipsing the other horse by a full head. Illya cheered, but his attention was immediately drawn by Napoleon’s sudden, unmistakable, whoop of victory.

Illya stopped, utterly entranced by his partners’ celebration. Napoleon and Gaby were jumping up and down excitedly, both hands clasped together. After a moment they seemed to remember that he was standing there; Gaby turned and wrapped her arms around him, hugging him tightly.

“You won, Chop shop!” Illya laughed. It was impossible not to have your spirits lifted by her joy, and the fact that ‘his’ horse had won made it all the better.

After a moment Gaby seemed to recover herself, looking down at her ticket. “I would have won either way,” she admitted. “I had an exacta box for the two. How could I not?”

Illya wasn’t sure exactly what that meant, but Gaby was happy, and that was what mattered. He smiled broadly and spun her around in his arms, enjoying the joy of the moment and letting himself forget about the mission and the mark, just for a moment.

“Solo!” Gaby cried, rotating between the two of them to face him again. “You won too?”

Napoleon actually looked embarrassed for half a second before he managed to comport himself into some semblance of his usual self-control. “Well, ah, yeah, I had a similar wager.”

“Let’s go cash in!” Gaby cried excitedly, already disentangling herself from Illya and pulling Napoleon toward the betting windows.

Napoleon let himself be dragged away from the balcony, and if he shot a look of distress at Illya it was so fleeting that the Russian couldn’t quite tell if he had imagined it or not. Illya followed them back into the relief of the shade, dodging the deck’s other occupants and sipping again at the julep in his hand. It _was_ rather refreshing, he decided, beginning to understand its popularity.

The race results were displayed on a board above the betting windows, along with the payouts for a standard $2 bet. Soviet Star had gone to the post with 25–1 odds, which meant a fairly substantial payout for anyone who had him in the win. Light Fingers, on the other hand, had clearly been the favorite, with 5–2 odds. Illya could barely suppress the smug smile that was trying to fight its way onto his lips; not that he _cared_ , per se, and he hadn’t wagered, but it would be something to tease Napoleon about later.

Gaby stepped up to the window when it was her turn and pushed her ticket toward the teller, who slipped it into a machine. A few moments later the teller slid six crisp $20 bills back across the counter to her, which Gaby immediately crushed in her hand triumphantly.

“Not a bad payout for a $4 bet, huh?” she said, waving the bills in Illya and Napoleon’s faces.

“Very good, Chop shop,” Illya laughed. “You’ll buy the rest of the drinks tonight, yes?”

Gaby punched him on the shoulder, playfully but hard enough to sting, nonetheless. “What about Napoleon?”

They turned to look expectantly at their partner, who was being beckoned toward the window. The American stepped up to the counter and proceeded to make himself as wide as possible, clearly trying to block the view of the transaction. Of course, Illya could just peer over his shoulder, but the teller’s disapproving glare held him off—mostly. He still managed to catch a glimpse of the betting slip before it disappeared into the teller’s hand, but he was certain he’d misread it. How many zeros had been on that bet?

“I’m afraid you’ll have to take this to the main office, sir,” the teller told him, passing the slip back over. “We don’t have the ability to process payouts that high here.”

Gaby’s eyes went impossibly wide and she tugged on Napoleon’s arm as he thanked the teller, a distinct redness creeping up the back of his neck that Illya knew had nothing to do with the sun.

“How much did you win?!” she exclaimed.

Napoleon just shook his head and waved her off. “Oh, I’m sure it’s just over the cap.” Illya could not help but notice that he did not volunteer what said cap _was_. “I can pick it up later.”

“Solo’s buying dinner,” Gaby announced, her tone brooking little argument. “Maybe for a while. Right now we need celebratory drinks, though.”

With that, she turned and practically sprinted off toward the bar, leaving Napoleon and Illya to trail after her.

“Where’d our friend get off to?” Napoleon asked as he looked around the space, quite clearly avoiding Illya’s gaze. Illya watched him for a moment, then flicked his eyes up to see Batista standing exactly where he had been fifteen minutes ago.

“Right where you left him.”

“Oh, yeah,” Napoleon said lamely. “So he is. Well, we should keep an eye on him.”

It was odd seeing Napoleon like this. Illya would call it _nervous_ if he didn’t know better, like Napoleon had been caught at something he was ashamed of. But there was little that Napoleon did that he was ashamed of, and his reaction to being caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to rarely went beyond mildly sheepish.

“Mark’s not going anywhere for several more races,” Illya said confidently, then added, “I thought you didn’t bet based on names, Cowboy?”

That seemed to catch Napoleon off guard. “Huh?” he replied, glancing up at Illya. “Oh, right, well I don’t.”

“I saw the odds on Soviet Star. You’re telling me you knew something no one else did?”

“Maybe I did, Peril,” Napoleon answered peevishly, shoving his hands into his pockets.

Illya hummed in response, knowing it would be obvious what he thought of the idea. It was clear that Napoleon had placed a rather large wager on Soviet Star, one that had relatively long odds of a payout. Illya didn’t quite know what to make of that.

“I take it you enjoyed the julep?” Napoleon commented as they stepped up to the bar behind Gaby, nodding toward the nearly empty glass in Illya’s hand.

“Is not bad,” Illya shrugged. “Not vodka, but perhaps better in the heat.”

“That’s for sure. Another one, then?”  
  
Illya shook his head. “We are working, Cowboy, or did your winnings make you forget?”  
  
The look that flitted across Napoleon’s face was somewhere between embarrassed and annoyed, but then he pasted a superficial smile on and shrugged. “Suit yourself, but remember there are several more hours before we can leave the track.”

The idea of several more hours of this weather was almost enough to make Illya reconsider, but he held firm. They weren’t expecting any trouble, but that always seemed to be the time that trouble went and found them anyway.

* * *

It was during the running of the day’s final race that he found himself cursing his prophetic thoughts.

Illya had found the Derby itself rather anticlimactic and not that much different from all the other races that day, but there was no denying that the effect it had on the crowd was electric. The balconies of Millionaire’s Row became so packed he could hardly see the track, and it was only that he didn’t want to lose track of Gaby where she’d pushed her way to the front that he didn’t retreat back to where a few stragglers still lingered under the covered deck.

Two minutes later he’d seen Napoleon laughing with Batista, who looked pleased with the race’s outcome. Illya had watched them surreptitiously for a few minutes before going to find Gaby in the crush of people. She was babbling excitedly (“—did you see—? —and then he swept around the bend—!”) but he was only half listening. They were not to lose track of the mark, but he hadn’t expected the sheer number of people that would be moving after the race finished; at least three-quarters of the attendants were leaving immediately.

“Where’s Napoleon?” Gaby asked, abruptly drawing his attention back to her.  
  
He glanced up to where Napoleon had been standing minutes ago, but neither their partner nor Batista were there anymore. Illya fought back a rising sense of disquiet; surely Napoleon was still around, merely hidden from them by the masses of people. He wouldn’t go anywhere without telling them—right?

_Not unless he were forced to_. Illya pushed away the thought. There was no reason to suspect that anyone knew who they were or what they were doing here. But with every passing minute his anxiety grew, and when the deck had mostly cleared and there was still no sign of their partner, Illya was forced to accept that something had gone wrong.

Churchill Downs was big, not even counting the parts off limits to the public, but Illya refused to consider having them split up for the search. They didn’t have in-ear communicators—had stupidly deemed them unnecessary—and it was just too risky without a way to stay in contact. They searched fruitlessly through the main building all the way to the ground level and through the infield until all that was left were the stables. As an owner, Batista would have access, but would Napoleon have gone quietly? Illya supposed it was possible.

As the horses came into the paddock for the final race, Illya and Gaby slipped through the open gate and toward the backside of the track. They kept to the outskirts, away from the more bustling barns and horses being sprayed off after their races. Their presence drew a few looks but fortunately no one bothered them.

They found him in an empty barn far enough away from the track that they could just barely hear the bell of the gate opening for the last race. When Illya pried the door open the first thing he saw was a body laying face down in a dark pool in the aisle—blonde, thankfully, and wearing a dark suit. He was approximately the size and build of one of Batista’s ‘companions’ that day, which Illya had suspected were bodyguards; thugs might have been a better guess, it seemed. Another lay half in and half out of a stall further down the aisle, also clearly killed in the bloody fight.

Napoleon was slumped in the corner of a stall, his suit horribly crumpled and stained with dirt and blood. His chin rested on his chest and one of his hands lay limply over a dark patch of blood on his right side, and for a terrible, fleeting moment Illya thought he might be dead. As Illya rushed over to him, though, Napoleon seemed to spring to life, clutching desperately at the bloody knife by his side.

“Cowboy, it’s me,” he murmured, grabbing Napoleon’s wrist before he could swing the blade. “You’re ok, we’re here.”

Napoleon blinked at him slowly, his eyes seemingly slow to focus. “Peril? What happened?”

“We could ask you the same thing,” Gaby put in. She leaned over Illya’s back and pushed a lock of hair out of Napoleon’s face, inspecting a shallow cut on his forehead. “Are you badly hurt?”  
  
Napoleon looked down at the dark patch of blood covering his side and back up at her, brow furrowed in confusion like he couldn’t remember how he’d gotten injured. “It appears so.”

Illya gently moved Napoleon’s hand to the side and unbuttoned his jacket, but when he tried to pull it back the action elicited a yelp of pain from his partner. Something was pinning the fabric to Napoleon’s body, and with a jolt of realization he remembered the julep glass had been in that pocket. Whatever had happened during the fight had apparently smashed the glass shards into Napoleon’s side.

“We need to get you to a hospital,” Illya told him, leaving off from trying to remove the jacket for the moment. The more he looked the more blood he saw and it was clear that much of it had once belonged to Napoleon.

Napoleon gave a weak laugh and his head clunked softly against the wood behind him. “Good luck finding a taxi right now.”

“Gaby, we need a—” Illya began, but when he turned to look at her she was already halfway to the barn’s back door.

“I’m on it,” she called back. “I’ll pull around when I find something.”

Napoleon’s face was alarmingly pale when Illya turned back to him, his eyes half-lidded and his breathing getting labored. “Stay with me, Cowboy,” he said quietly, turning back to the wound again. He needed to do _something_ , and part of that was keeping Napoleon from passing out. “What happened to you?

“They made me,” he groaned, shaking his head weakly. “Don’t know how. Dragged me back here. I took some of them out, but our friend got away.”

“We saw your handiwork when we came in,” Illya told him.

Napoleon managed a half smile. “Lucky I had the knife. Remind me not to carry around glassware in my pocket on a mission again, though, ok?” Illya glanced up to see Napoleon watching him. “How bad is it?”

“Only one way to tell.”

It was bad, of course, and the pool of blood collecting around Napoleon’s hip was only getting larger. The larger pieces of glass had to come out so he could bind the wound or it would rapidly get a lot worse. Grabbing one edge of the pocket, Illya began ripping through the thin, blood-soaked fabric to expose the shattered glass within. Napoleon gave a small wimper that Illya was fairly certain had nothing to do with the pain.

“Suit’s already ruined, Cowboy.”

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it,” Napoleon pouted. “I just got this suit.”

Illya couldn’t quite help the twitch of his lips and didn’t want to think about when Napoleon complaining about his ruined clothes had become _endearing_. “Maybe you can get another before we leave.”

“No, it’s fine,” he sighed. “When am I going to need seersucker again, honestly?”

“Hopefully no time soon,” Illya muttered.

Napoleon fell into silence as Illya continued carefully ripping, trying not to go too fast so as not to jostle the glass shards. Eventually Illya glanced up again to make sure he hadn’t passed out, and found Napoleon watching him with a strange expression on his face. As soon as Napoleon noticed him looking the expression vanished, replaced by as mischevious a grin as his sallow, pained face could manage. “You know, when I imagined you ripping my clothes off it wasn’t quite like this.”  
  
Illya felt himself flush and choked on nothing, trying to hide it in a cough as he concentrated intently on the pocket and definitely not Napoleon’s face. “Not ripping your clothes off, Cowboy,” he mumbled.

“More’s the pity,” Napoleon murmured, so soft Illya barely heard him.

He reminded himself that it was a joke, that he’d been witness multiple times to the fact that even while mortally wounded Napoleon couldn’t help but hide in humor. Certainly it didn’t mean anything, nor did Illya _want_ it to mean anything, regardless of the way the words had caused his heart to thud in his ears.

In any case, Illya elected not to continue this conversation, instead inspecting the now open pocket. Sure enough, several large glass shards had been driven backward through the thin lining of the jacket into Napoleon’s side. They were covered in blood and exceedingly slippery, but one by one he managed to extract them until he could fold back the front of the jacket. He carefully pulled the hem of Napoleon’s shirt out and pushed it up so he could inspect the wounds. They weren’t terribly long, but they were deep, and thick black blood oozed readily from them. Illya raised his hands to his throat pull off his own tie, leaving bloody fingerprints all over his collar.

“Not your tie, too,” Napoleon protested, his voice almost a whine. He was pouting again. “I bought you that in Paris.”

It had been one of Illya’s favorite ties, but he wasn’t about to admit that now. He slid it out from around his neck and wrapped it around Napoleon. “So you’ll buy me another,” he retorted, grabbing his pocket silk and pressing it gently over the cuts. “I’d rather have you than tie, Cowboy.”

“Watch out, Peril,” Napoleon said, soft and distant. His head was lolling back against the wall again, eyes unfocused. “You’ll make me think you care.”

Jokes again, Illya thought, although that didn’t explain away the pang in his chest. Fear and concern for his partner, then, and something else he’d rather not probe too closely. He wiped his hands on his pants and reached out to just barely cup Napoleon’s jaw with one hand, the pad of his thumb brushing lightly over the stubble on his cheek. A gesture of comfort and nothing more, Illya told himself, though which of them was supposed to be more comforted by it he couldn’t say.

“Of course I care, Cowboy,” he heard himself say. It was little more than a whisper, and Napoleon didn’t give any indication that he had heard. In fact, he appeared to be rapidly losing consciousness. Illya let his hand drop to Napoleon’s shoulder, shaking it gently. “C’mon, let’s go meet Chop shop outside.”

Napoleon groaned in protest but he made an effort to stand anyway when Illya carefully hauled him up, pulling Napoleon’s left arm over his shoulders. By the time they made it to the end of the barn aisle Gaby was skidding to a stop in front of them in a beat up sedan.

“Sorry,” she called back to them as Illya opened the back door and folded Napoleon and himself into the back, “took me ages to find something that had a back seat instead of a pick-up bed.”  
  
The traffic was, as Napoleon had predicted, truly awful around the track, but Illya hardly paid attention as Gaby practically banked around tight corners and wove skillfully into spaces just barely wide enough for the car. Napoleon was unconscious again, and this time apparently not inclined to wake back up. He had slumped into Illya’s arms, and if Illya held him closer than was strictly necessary, fingers of one hand pressed lightly underneath his jaw to feel the weak thud of his partner’s carotid artery, he was certain that no one could blame him.

He wasn’t surprised to see that the emergency clinic they’d been directed to was small and out of the way; it looked clean and modern, at least, which was more than could be said of some places they’d been patched up before. Gaby ran inside, leaving the car running and her door open, and a moment later several medics emerged with a stretcher. Reluctantly, Illya let them pull Napoleon from his grasp and followed them inside. One of them asked him about Napoleon’s injuries, and he told them about the glass and the blood loss, hoping there wasn’t any hidden damage from the fight.

“Sir? Sir, you’re bleeding,” someone said next to him.

Illya blinked a few times and shook his head to try to clear it. He was standing in the empty waiting room of the clinic, still facing the doors they’d taken Napoleon through, but he had no clue how long he’d been fixed in one place. There was a dull throb in his right hand and he looked down to see blood dripping off his fingers down to a small pool on the floor. Slowly, he lifted his hand to inspect it; it looked like he’d probably cut himself on the glass when he’d tried to remove the fragments. He never even noticed.

“Let’s get that bandaged up, ok?”

The nurse standing next to him was regarding him with a mild look of encouragement, as if speaking to a small child. Illya wanted to protest and say it was nothing, but in the end he didn’t have the energy to. The nurse led him off to another room. Distantly, he wondered where Gaby had gotten to.

She reappeared not long after he’d been escorted back to the waiting area, hand bandaged. He realized that somewhere along the way she had lost her giant hat; her sunglasses sat perched on the top of her head in its place, now.

“I called Waverly, let him know what happened,” she told him, collapsing heavily into one of the horrible plastic chairs next to him. “Seems Batista’s in the wind. There’s been no chatter on official channels so I guess they haven’t discovered the bodies in the barn, yet.”

“Or Batista’s people cleaned them up,” Illya suggested. What an abysmal mission. He wondered if Napoleon had gotten anything from Batista, or whether it was going to be a complete and utter waste.

Gaby shrugged and nodded, conceding the point. She yawned dramatically, stretching her arms up into the air above her. “I’m starving. Gonna go look for something edible. Want anything?”  
  
“’m fine, Chop shop.”

“Wait,” she said, suddenly noticing the bandages on Illya’s hand. “What happened to you?”  
  
He shook his head dismissively. “It’s nothing. Cut myself taking glass out of Solo. Did not even need stitches.”

Gaby was quiet for a beat and he had the somewhat uncomfortable feeling that she was evaluating him. Then her small hand slid unexpectedly onto his knee and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Hey,” she said, her voice soft, “he’ll be ok. He’s had a lot worse.”  
  
Illya managed a minute half smile at that. “I know. It has just been… long day.”

She nodded in agreement and got up, returning a few minutes later with a cup of water. “You should drink this,” she told him, pushing it into his hands. “And maybe ask the nurses for some aloe lotion. You’re gonna peel something fierce in a couple of days.”

“Stupid sun,” Illya grumbled, drawing a light laugh from Gaby that managed to lift his spirits, if only a bit.

* * *

It was quite late by the time Napoleon came out of surgery. When the doctor came out to talk to them Gaby was dozing against Illya’s shoulder, the remnants of her dinner left discarded on the side table next to them. Of course they had tried to send Gaby and Illya to a nearby hotel, but at one glare from Illya the doctor led them back to where Napoleon lay sleeping. The chairs in the hospital room were at least cushioned, but even so Illya slept in only fits and starts, and when he finally woke for good in the morning it was with powerful crick in his neck. Somehow he managed to be the last one awake; Gaby was nowhere to be found, and Napoleon was sitting up in the hospital bed, watching him with a slightly bemused expression.

“You really didn’t have to sleep here, you know.”

Illya just grunted, massaging the side of his neck with one hand as he pushed himself into more of an upright position. It wasn’t the first time he’d spent the night in an uncomfortable chair in a hospital, and he knew Napoleon had done the same in his place. He yawned and scrubbed a hand across his face. “Where is Gaby?”

“Waverly sent her to a rendezvous with some local contacts to do some intel-sharing on our friend,” Napoleon told him nonchalantly.

The chair underneath Illya stuttered against the ground as he sat bolt upright. “What? Alone?”  
  
“Relax, Peril, she’ll be fine,” Napoleon smirked at him. “She’s not in any danger.”  
  
“That’s what we thought last night, too,” Illya reminded him, pushing himself to standing. “Where did she go? I will meet her.”

When Napoleon didn’t immediately answer, Illya glanced at him to find his partner giving him one of those looks that said he thought Illya was being an idiot. “You know Waverly wouldn’t send any of us alone if there was one iota of a chance of trouble. Besides, Batista’s long gone by now.”  
  
“How do you know?” Illya demanded as he folded his arms in front of his chest.

“He told me, Peril,” Napoleon drawled, rolling his eyes. “Right before one of his thugs kicked a julep glass into my liver. I’m sure he’s halfway back to Venezuela by now.”

“Hmph,” Illya replied, unconvinced. There was no reason to take risks when they could have just woken him and he’d have gone along. Napoleon only chuckled when Illya told him this, though.

“Oh, but you were sleeping so peacefully,” he cooed, grinning at Illya. “Besides, I have a favor to ask.”

Illya cocked a brow at him, curious despite himself. “A favor.”

“You see, I don’t have much in the way of clothing right now, and in any case I think you have more of my blood on yours than I did. If you could run over to the hotel, you could get yourself a change and me one as well.”

“Is that all?” Somehow it did not seem like Napoleon was done—a run for clothes was hardly a _favor_ , anyway—and this was confirmed when Napoleon opened his mouth and closed it again, like he wasn’t sure how to ask what he really wanted. “Spit it out, Cowboy.”  
  
“Well, you see, I have this ticket to cash out…” he said, looking somewhat sheepish. “I’d do it myself, but the nurses here run a tighter ward than some prisons. I’d rather not leave without the winnings. If you could make it to the track today, you could collect them in my place.”

“I see,” Illya replied flatly, studying his partner. “And how much did you win?”  
  
Napoleon tried to shrug nonchalantly, but the injury had clearly put him off his game. “Ah, enough that you’ll need this, for a wire transfer,” he admitted, that unusual sheepishness still coloring his tone, and held out a small slip of paper. Illya took it and glanced down to see it contained what were obviously bank routing and account numbers as well as a name at the top: Nikolai Sokolov.

“This is a joke, no?” Illya smirked, eyebrows raised. “Russian identity? Your accent is attrocious.”

Napoleon grinned at him. “Good thing there are plenty of Swiss bankers that don’t know any better. You’ll need the PIN, too. It’s, uh,” he hestitated a moment, grin faltering, and Illya wondered if he was having second thoughts about giving him access to the account, “2507.”

“2507?” Illya repeated slowly, sure he had heard it wrong.

“Yup, yeah, that’s it,” Napoleon confirmed quickly, sounding unmistakably flustered.

Illya stared at him for a long moment, but Napoleon was now looking fixedly across the room to avoid his gaze. Illya was sure there had to be some other explanation for the PIN, that it had to be just a coincidence. The 25th of July. Illya’s birthday. Napoleon would know, of course; he’d seen Illya’s file, and last summer when they’d been on a mission in Brussels on the date he’d surprised Illya with a cake.

“How long have you had this account, Cowboy?” Illya found himself asking, pouring a lot of effort into seeming indifferent.  
  
Napoleon waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, a while. Try not to empty it, Peril, the CIA doesn’t know about that one.”

_I bet not_ , Illya thought. He tried to remember when the last time they’d been in Switzerland. A few months after they’d started working together, they’d been sent there on a fact-finding mission. Illya recalled that Napoleon had disappeared for a while one afternoon, saying he had “unfinished business” to take care of. Long enough to open a bank account? Maybe.

“Ok, I will do it, on one condition,” Illya told him. The look Napoleon returned was full of no small amount of trepidition, but he nodded. “You tell me why you wagered absurd amount of money on a long shot horse in that race.”

“Peril…” Napoleon began, his voice trailing off as if he was hoping Illya might change his mind. But Illya merely stood there silently and watched as a complex sequence of emotions played across his partner’s face. “It was… I don’t know, it was a lark,” Napoleon huffed eventually. “Sometimes you just get a feeling about a horse.”

“Nothing to do with the name,” Illya prodded skeptically.

“Of course to do with the name!” Napoleon snapped. “What do you want from me, Peril? To admit that I bet on a horse because its name reminded me of you? Is that so unbelievable? Gaby did the same thing.” Napoleon clenched his jaw defiantly, but Illya couldn’t help but notice his shoulders had hunched into a defensive posture, his arms crossed in front of his abdomen.

“Gaby bet $4.”

Napoleon exhaled heavily and dropped his head into one hand. “I didn’t mean to,” he said quietly. “I was just going to go put a few bucks down, and no matter if he won or lost we’d have a laugh, but when I got up to the window some kind temporary insanity came over me.”

“It’s ok, Cowboy. I understand,” Illya told him.

Napoleon turned his head slightly to look up at Illya through his fingers, brow furrowed. “You do?”  
  
“Well, not the amount of money, but you are right, bet was amusing. Of course Soviet horse would win. Even you had to admit that. He should have been the favorite.” Illya let his lips curl into a small smile, and was rewarded by the sight of Napoleon huffing out a laugh, the tension finally leaving his shoulders.  
  
“Of course, of course. Right you are, Peril. Now will you go collect my money?”

“Very well, Cowboy. Try not to get into trouble while I’m gone.”

Napoleon scoffed. “How am I gonna get into trouble when I can hardly get out of bed?”  
  
“Never stopped you before,” Illya answered wryly. “In fact, if I recall Dublin correctly…”

Napoleon didn’t let him finish. “Ok, ok, off you go. Do try to make sure the outfit you bring back for me matches, hmm?”

“I am amazed that you would trust me with such an important decision.”

“Well, as Waverly would say, needs must,” Napoleon allowed magnanimously.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy Pandemic Derby Week! If you need a mint julep recipe for this Saturday, [here's a classic one.](https://www.makersmark.com/cocktails/makers-mark-mint-julep) 😉

Unlike Napoleon, Illya had not brought more than one suit with him, so his usual black turtleneck was going to have to serve for his trip to the track’s main office. The deserted buildings were almost eerie after having seen the thrum of activity the previous day, but the staff at welcomed him warmly when he told them why he’d come.

“You have the mutuel ticket, Mr… ?” the office manager asked. He was tall and thin, though not as tall as Illya, and wore a pale grey suit. A discrete silver nametag clipped to one pocket identified him as Mr. Charles Putnam.

“Sokolov,” Illya answered, producing the ticket. Putnam’s eyebrows shot up when he saw it, covered as it was in myriad bloody fingerprints. Illya waved the bandaged fingers on his hand by way of explanation. “Broke a julep glass yesterday and cut my fingers.”

“Sorry to hear that, Mr. Sokolov,” Putnam told him. He paused for a moment and called for an assistant, muttered something in her ear, and then smiled at Illya again. “We’ll get this processed right away for you.” He took a seat behind a desk and fed the ticket into a machine, eyebrows shooting to the sky again as he saw the payout. “Very nice pick, sir. You were quite lucky yesterday.”

Illya gave him a small smile and nodded. It was hard to think of that day as lucky—the mission a failure, his partner seriously injured—but in the end Napoleon was ok and had won an apparently impressive amount of money, so Illya knew he’d probably count the day as a win, overall.

Fortunately, the taciturn answer seemed to stave off further questions, and he was spared small talk as Putnam processed the payout with the provided banking numbers. When he passed the small slip of paper back across the desk, Illya found himself staring at it and thinking about the enormous amount of trust Napoleon was putting in him. Illya did not kid himself about what it meant.

He knew Napoleon’s hidden bank accounts were his lifeline, something the CIA hadn’t managed to take from him, and giving anyone access to even one of them was dangerous. Giving access to a spy who under normal circumstances would be his enemy was unthinkable. Of course, perhaps this was just a new dummy account he’d opened for just such a scenerio, something that couldn’t be traced and would be emptied soon. It would make more sense than the other options.

“I’ll need to you to enter your PIN into the console now, sir,” Putnam said, interrupting his thoughts.

He stood and backed out from behind the desk, allowing Illya to take his place. A number pad sat to the side of a small, slightly fuzzy monitor, waiting for input. Illya typed in the numbers carefully, and after a moment the monitor displayed the amount that would be transferred—a staggering amount of money to win in one day, on one race, he thought—and the total balance of the account. He froze, stunned by the numbers displayed on the wavering screen. There had to be some error somewhere,perhaps in the computer or the display, adding zeros, but even as he thought it he knew it wasn’t true.

“Is something the matter, Mr. Sokolov?” Putnam asked.

Illya started, realizing he’d been sitting there for too long staring at the monitor. He glanced over at the manager hovering nearby, looking at Illya expectantly. “Fine, fine. Eveything is perfect, thank you.” He cleared out the information and then stood, moving out into the room.

“So glad to hear it. I hope you’ll visit the Downs again soon. You never know how long that lucky streak will last.”

“What?” Illya asked, realizing too late he’d still been lost in his thoughts. Putnam was standing with his hand extended, clearly waiting for Illya to shake it. “Oh, yes, of course.”

“Is there anything else I can help you with today?”

It occured to Illya, then, that perhaps this was an opportunity not to be squandered. “Actually,” he mused, “I had a long discussion in the gallery yesterday with a man who gave me a tip on this horse. I’d love to give him some token of my appreciation, but I’m afraid I don’t know how to contact him. I’m not sure if you would be able to help me…?”

Putnam smiled broadly at him. “I will do my best. Do you know his name?”

“Mr. Batista, I believe.”

“Oh,” Putnam said, smile faltering ever so slightly before stabilizing again. “Why yes, Mr. Batista is one of our most valued patrons and owners.”  
  
“He mentioned he might be traveling back to Venezuela soon, I don’t know if I’ve already missed him?”

“Oh, no, he’s scheduled to come by the stables tomorrow. Perhaps I can leave him your card?”

It was as if someone had poured icewater down Illya’s back. A thousand conflicting thoughts went racing through his mind, but the manager was still standing there, waiting for a card he couldn’t produce, for a name Batista would not know. That might work in their favor, though, given that it seemed Napoleon’s cover had been blown.

“I’m afraid I don’t have one on me,” Illya replied apologetically. “Perhaps I can leave my number?” Putnam produced a piece of paper and a pen, and Illya scrawled down an untraceable, secure UNCLE phone line, leaving off his name. He handed it off to the manager with a thin smile.

Before Illya could make his exit, though, the assistant showed up at Putnam’s elbow clutching something, which she passed to the manager before she disappeared through the door again. “Ah, here it is,” Putnam said, smiling at Illya and holding out the object, which turned out to be an empty julep cup, this one a shiny silver instead of glass. “You mentioned that yours broke, and, well, I know many like to have them as a souvenir. Please accept this with our thanks for your patronage yesterday.”

“Of course, thank you,” Illya replied, somewhat awkwardly, taking the cup. “Thank you so much for your assistance.”

“Any time, Mr. Sokolov.”

It was all Illya could do not to sprint back to his borrowed car once he’d left the building. With their mark still in town, all of the day’s decisions were thrown into uncertainty. Not only had Gaby gone alone to the rendezvous, he’d left Napoleon alone and injured at the clinic.

This disaster of a mission could already have gotten worse, and he wouldn’t even know until it might be too late.

He drove as fast as he dared back to the clinic only to find a nondescript black sedan already parked outside. Cursing, he drew the gun he’d retreived from the hotel and crept cautiously toward the door. The clinic was apparently deserted; no one sat at the front desk, and he could hear no voices from where he stood in the waiting room. He moved carefully through the halls, clearing each empty room, trying to remind himself it was unlikely anyone would be able to track them here. As he turned the corner toward Napoleon’s room he heard the low rumble of someone speaking, and all of his caution was abandoned. The small window in the door to the room revealed at least two men in dark suits standing at the foot of the bed, and Illya barely hesitated before he burst in, gun extended in front of him.

“Illya! What the hell are you doing?!” Gaby yelled.

He spun in place, taking in the full scene: Gaby stood next to Napoleon’s bed, both of them apparently as he’d last seen them and not looking especially under duress. The two men he’d seen had their hands on their guns but hadn’t drawn them, identical looks of confusion and alarm on their faces. Illya turned back to Gaby, lowering his gun slightly but not holstering it just yet.

“Who are they?” he demanded, unable to keep the tension from his voice.

“Our local contacts, Peril,” Napoleon answered, looking somewhat amused. “They were just giving us an update on our friend.”

“Batista hasn’t left the country,” Illya said as he holstered his gun reluctantly. “He’s due at the track tomorrow.”

“He _was_ ,” one of the other agents corrected, “until he set his thugs on an international intelligence agent. We confirmed his plane departed Bowman Field late last night.”

Illya wasn’t sure he fully believed this, but Gaby and Napoleon seemed to accept it the intel. “Why would he make a move like that? The attack makes no sense.”

“We’re not totally sure,” the other agent admitted. “Nearest we can tell, he’s a lot more paranoid than we previously thought.”  
  
“And possibly deeper into the conspiracy as well,” the first agent finished. “This has gone beyond our purview, so we’ll be transferring the rest of our files to your organization in the next few days.”

“Fancy a jaunt to Caracas, Peril?” Napoleon offered. “I could use some beach time.”

“You are not going to Venezuela,” Illya told him, frowning as he turned to Gaby. “Tell me Waverly is not seriously—”

“He’s _joking_ ,” Gaby cut him off, looking exhasperated at the both of them even though Illya really had done nothing. Sighing, she turned back to their contacts. “Thank you for all your help. I’ll walk with you to the door?” She shot Illya a look along the lines of _really?_ before she exited the room, lips pursed with something like annoyance and amusement at once.

“I take it you made it to the track?” Napoleon asked after they had left. “Am I to assume you collected the winnings before you interrogated the staff about Batista?”  
  
“I did not interrogate anyone. Honestly, Cowboy, what kind of spy do you think I am?”  
  
He walked into that one; Napoleon grinned wickedly. “A terrible one?”

“Very funny. For that, maybe I’ll keep those account numbers, hm?” Illya shot back, arching an eyebrow at him.

To his surprise, Napoleon just shrugged. “Kinda assumed you would, anyway. It’s what any not-terrible spy would do. I trust you won’t sell me out to the CIA?”

Illya kept his face as neutral as he was able, trying to hide his disbelief. “Of course not.”

“Well, then,” Napoleon said, spreading his hands like it was obvious. “Keep them. Somebody probably should, given the life expectancy in our field. I know you’ll remember the PIN.”

Suddenly the nature of the account _was_ obvious, and Illya kicked himself for not seeing it sooner. A Russian cover identity, Illya’s birthday as the PIN: it was designed so that Illya could easily accept it as his own if necessary. The idea was as staggering as the amount of money inside it. He wondered when Napoleon had planned to tell him about it originally, or whether he’d expected Illya would discover it on his own after his death. It wasn’t something he wanted to think that hard about.

“…Peril?” Napoleon said, and Illya realized he’d been speaking while Illya was lost in his thoughts.  
  
“What?” he asked, brow furrowed.

“I said the doctors told me I can leave shortly. The cuts were deep but I’m not in much danger of reopening them. You brought my clothes?”

Illya grunted and unslung the bag he’d brought in from his shoulder, dropping it on the bed next to Napoleon. It was partly open at the top, and he saw Napoleon fish out the silver julep cup before he could leave him to change.

“What’s this?” he asked, bringing it close to his face to inspect the engraving.

“Manager at the track felt bad when I told him I’d cut my hand on a julep glass,” Illya told him. “Now you have nicer one.”

Napoleon cocked his head slightly, as if something had just occurred to him. “What happened to your glass?”

“Guess I left it in the clubhouse when everything went bad,” Illya said with a shrug. “Not like I will need it in New York.”

“Juleps don’t stop being refreshing at the Mason-Dixon Line, Peril,” Napoleon laughed. “Tell you what, next time we have one of those New York heat waves you like to complain about, come over and I’ll make you one.”

* * *

The opportunity came sooner than he expected. They’d been back a couple of weeks when a late-May heat wave came rocketing up the eastern seaboard, sending the temperatures into the mid-30s and Illya into a puddle on the floor of his New York apartment. He didn’t have air conditioning; it hardly seemed like a worthwhile expense, given how little time he actually spent in the apartment, and anyway they’d be off to Scotland in a few days for another mission. Napoleon was basically healed, and they were all going a tad stir-crazy lately.

One blistering afternoon Illya took a walk to get out of his stuffy apartment, not knowing where he was headed until he ended up standing in front of Napoleon’s building. He had no idea if his partner was even at home, but even outside of the offer he’d made in Kentucky, Illya knew he had an open invitation to drop in. The sun beat down on him mercilessly as he stood on the blistering sidewalk, reminding him none-too-fondly of that day at the track. He scratched idly at the back of his neck. At least he’d finally stopped peeling; his sunburn had been a frequent focus of Napoleon’s teasing since they’d returned.

Finally he decided that at the very least he couldn't stand out here in the sun any longer. With a nod to the doorman, he let himself into the building, took the elevator up to Napoleon’s floor, knocked on the door, and tried not to wonder if he was interrupting anything. A few moments later Napoleon answered, and as he opened the door a blast of cool air emerged from the apartment. It was like a magnet, pulling Illya inside immediately.

“By all means, come on in, Peril,” Napoleon chuckled after Illya pushed past him.

“When did you get air conditioning?” Illya asked, letting his eyes fall shut and his head tip back as he reveled in the blessed coolness.

“They installed it over last winter,” Napoleon told him as he closed the door and followed Illya into the apartment. “I have to say, if I knew it was going to put a look like that on your face, I would have invited you over days ago.” Illya’s eyes flew open and he felt suddenly self-conscious. What kind of face had he been making? He schooled his features back to a careful neutral, but Napoleon just grinned at him and gestured to the living room. “Make yourself at home, I was just finishing up something in the kitchen.”

Illya stood in the middle of the room for a little while, not in any way ready to sit down on the leather furniture. Soft sounds of utensils on pans emerged from the kitchen, and he idly wondered what Napoleon was working on so intently. His curiosity was not yet enough to lure him into his partner’s sacred space, where he knew he was guaranteed to get shoo’d out before too long. Napoleon rarely tolerated people lingering while he was cooking. Instead Illya walked around the living room he already knew so well, letting his eyes take in the books on Napoleon’s shelves and the small, unassuming pieces of art most people would never realize had been ‘liberated’ from some dark corner of a museum collections.

The clatter of something hard in the whirr of a blender drew his attention toward the kitchen door, and a few moments later Napoleon emerged holding the silver julep cup, straw and sprig of mint sticking out from the top.

“Your julep, as promised,” he said as he presented the cup to Illya.

The silver was frosted over even in the relative cool of the apartment, and when Illya took it his fingers stuck to the sides. Napoleon watched with an expectant look on his face as Illya took a sip. It was sweet and minty, and quite a bit stronger than the one he’d had at the track. Illya let lips curve into a small smile; Napoleon always was a bit heavy handed on the liquor in his drinks.

“Almost tastes authentic, Cowboy,” Illya told him.

Napoleon smiled at Illya’s backhanded praise and disappeared back into the kitchen, and this time Illya followed him, leaning on the door frame so as to stay out of the way. It was several degrees warmer in the kitchen, enough that there was a fine sheen of sweat on Napoleon’s brow as he bent over the stovetop, diligently stirring something in a small pot. He hadn’t bothered to put on an apron over his casual clothes: loose dark pants and a slightly rumpled linen shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and the top couple of buttons left undone to reveal a sliver of dark chest hair. Illya forced himself not to stare and ended up gazing instead at the curl that had flopped it’s way down onto Napoleon’s forehead.

“I don’t mean to be an ungracious host, but custard waits for no man,” Napoleon said after a minute, staring down into the pot.

Illya hummed his understanding, though in actuality he had no idea what making custard invovled. “Why custard, Cowboy?”

“The base for ice cream,” Napoleon replied absently. He pulled the spoon out of the pot and dragged a finger through the cream covering the back, leaving a clean stripe in its wake. “Or in this case, gelato.”

He was apparently satisfied with whatever his test had told him, because he pulled the pot off the stove and removed it to a bowl of ice water on the counter, stirring every once in a while. Illya sipped his julep idly as he watched Napoleon putter about, making minute adjustments that Illya could hardly see the effect of.

“You know there is an ice cream place down the block, right?” Illya teased.

Napoleon shot him a wounded look. “Look, Alma’s is pretty good, but this is a family recipe, Peril. Straight from Italy.”

“Ice cream is ice cream,” Illya shrugged, just to rile him up.

“Is that so?” Napoleon asked, his eyes narrowing and lips curling in a small smile. “Well, then, I guess you’re not interested in trying some.”

“I never said that,” Illya said, too quickly, and cursed his own eagerness. Napoleon knew he had a sweet tooth, damn him. With an unmistakable air of victory he stepped over to the freezer, pulling out no fewer than five good-sized containers of ice cream and setting them on the counter. Illya gave him a skeptical look. “Did you forget we are leaving in two days, Cowboy?”  
  
“Ice cream keeps just fine in the freezer, Peril,” Napoleon said as he opened up a drawer and fished out a spoon. He paused for a moment, looking at the containers and the last custard, still sitting in the ice bath. “Though it’s possible I did get a bit carried away.”

“Planning on eating all this yourself, then.”

“No,” Napoleon replied primly, “I had been thinking of inviting you and Gaby over tomorrow, but _someone_ showed up early.”

“I could call Chop shop to come over,” Illya offered, gesturing out toward where he knew Napoleon’s phone lay.

Napoleon stared at him for a minute, opening his mouth and then closing it again. His brow furrowed, and then he dropped his head, shaking it softly. “Maybe later,” he said eventually, then held out the spoon toward Illya. “Here.”

Illya took the proffered spoon cautiously and dug out a bite from the container closest to him: off-white and speckled with dark flecks. He briefly recalled the name _stracciatella_ from a gelato shop in Florence, the way that the smooth cream had melted down onto his hand and Napoleon had laughed as he had licked it off. That gelato had been outstanding, he’d thought, but it had nothing on what he just put in his mouth.

At first the chocolate flecks were a sharp textural contrast to the impossibly smooth and creamy vanilla base, but they melted away almost immediately onto his tongue. He felt his eyelids flutter and fought to keep a straight face; Napoleon was already smug enough about his cooking skills as it was. He was, however, unable to keep himself from digging eagerly into the next flavor and the next. Lemon, pistachio, hazelnut, some tart and tangy fruit he couldn’t readily identify… they were all exquisite. _Some family recipe_ , he thought.

“What is this flavor?” he asked, gesturing with the spoon to the bright yellow-orange one before he scooped out another bite of it.

“Passion fruit,” Napoleon answered, his voice sounding oddly breathless.

Illya’s eyes _had_ closed by the end, and when he opened them to glance at Napoleon, spoon still stuck in his mouth, he did not expect what he saw. Rather than looking smug, Napoleon was staring at him rapturously, his lips ever-so-slightly parted, like watching Illya eat ice cream was the most wonderful thing he’d ever seen. After a second his gaze flicked up from Illya’s mouth to meet his eyes and, oh, what Illya saw in them took his breath away. He’d rarely seen Napoleon’s face so unguarded—usually only when he was very drunk or very injured—and the weight of it seemed to unlock the door on a knowledge hidden deep within him.

_Oh no_ , Illya thought.

A bubble of something burst within him, sending a frisson of realization down into his limbs to tingle at his fingertips and toes. The feeling of warmth spreading through his chest was not new, but his understanding of it was. He’d been so adamant about denying his feelings, and about writing off the signs of Napoleon’s as jokes or merely acts of friendship, that the revelation now was nothing short of stunning. Looking back, he could glimpse it over and over again, disguised as amusement or worry or jealousy or even the annoyance that had long become more affectionate than it had any right to be. How had he not known?

The spoon slipped from Illya’s grasp and clattered to the counter, shattering the invisible tension that had drawn between them. The glittering fragments of it, sharp and breathtaking, drew Illya infinitesimally and irresistably forward as his eyes dropped to Napoleon’s mouth of their own accord. He licked his lips, still tangy and sweet, and thought idly that they should put away the rest of the ice cream before it melted.

And then Napoleon’s lips were on his, and Illya’s body didn’t even have the decency to freeze in shock before kissing him back enthusiastically. Napoleon’s tongue slid along Illya’s bottom lip, humming with pleasure as his lips curled into a smile at the taste of his own handiwork there, and Illya opened his mouth to admit him further. The warmth of his tongue licked into the still ice cream-cooled interior of Illya’s mouth, and oh, the contrast was exquisite. Napoleon tasted of salty sweat and sweet cream and the woody dark vanilla of bourbon, and Illya kissed him like he wanted to devour him, which, to be fair, he basically did.

One of Napoleon’s hands slid behind Illya’s neck while the other wrapped around his waist to splay across his lower back, pressing their bodies tightly together. The contact drew a low moan from Illya’s throat and he felt himself grabbing blindly at Napoleon; one hand twining into his thick hair, another clutching desperately at his hip. Apparently emboldened by this response, Napoleon pushed him back against the counter and Illya went willingly, letting himself be boxed in in a way that he never would have thought he could be comfortable with before this moment.

A hot tendril of desire pooled low in his gut, and he reached up to deftly unbutton Napoleon’s shirt, sliding his hand over muscles bunching under smooth skin. He knew he scars he felt there well, almost better than his own at this point, but never like this. Never with the unmistakable twinge of panic when he thought about how _this one_ could have taken Napoleon away from him. His fingers ghosted softly over the tender new scars on his right side, a small constellation wrought by the julep glass. The fresh memory of blood and seersucker and silk flooded into his head and he shuddered out of the kiss, hoping Napoleon wouldn’t take it the wrong way.

“I’m here,” Napoleon whispered, reading his reaction clearly enough. One of his hands covered Illya’s, lacing their fingers together as their eyes met. “Illya. I’m here.”

His name on Napoleon’s lips sent a tremor of a completely different flavor shooting down his spine. “I know,” he murmured back, giving Napoleon’s hand a squeeze before he let his hand leave the scars and move to trace a line over the crest of his hip bone.

Napoleon’s eyelids fluttered and he dove forward to kiss Illya’s neck, lips and teeth and tongue working their way along the muscular line of his throat. His hips ground forward and Illya encouraged the movement, pulling the hard line of Napoleon’s erection against his own.

“Bed?” Napoleon murmured into Illya’s neck, the vibration of it sending little spikes of pleasure down into his chest.

“Bed,” Illya gasped in agreement. With his hands on Napoleon’s hips, he pushed away from the counter and sent them both stumbling toward the door. They’d nearly made it out of the kitchen when something rather important occurred to Illya.

“Wait!” Illya said, feet grinding abruptly to a halt under him. Napoleon’s inertia carried him back a step before his hands on Illya’s waist stopped him. His grip tightened, and it was clear from the stricken look on his face that he thought Illya was having second thoughts. “The ice cream. It will melt.”

A slow smile spread across Napoleon’s lips, and then suddenly he was laughing breathlessly in relief. He surged forward to kiss Illya again, laughter still shaking his shoulders, then leaned his forehead into the valley between Illya’s neck and shoulder. “Oh, Peril,” he sighed. “What would I do without you?”

“I think you would have melted ice cream, Cowboy.”

“Well, in point of fact,” Napoleon countered, slipping past Illya to grab the containers. “I believe the ice cream would still be safely in the freezer.”

Illya crossed his arms over his chest, the corners of his mouth twitching upward as he tried to bite back a grin. “Ah. Maybe I should go? To ensure the safety of ice cream.”

Napoleon’s reaction to this suggestion wasn’t a surprise, but that made it no less satisfying. There was a wild look in his eye as he shoved the containers haphazardly into the freezer and slammed the door behind him, leaning heavily on the fridge for a moment.

“Don’t you dare,” he practically growled. And then he was all over Illya again, lips on his throat and hands pressing him backward out of the kitchen and inexorably toward the bedroom.

* * *

When Illya emerged from the shower later that afternoon Napoleon had already departed the bed, leaving the covers in utter disarray. Soft sounds filtered in from elsewhere in the apartment so he padded out into the hall, enjoying the sensation of the cool hardwood floor on his bare feet. He felt almost human again, and considered that maybe he would need to look into getting air conditioning for his own flat. Or, he reasoned, he could save the expense all together and instead spend a lot more time enjoying Napoleon’s AC. Somehow he didn’t think his partner would object.

Illya found him in the kitchen again, his silk robe belted loosely around his waist. He cocked an eyebrow at Illya when he entered, hair still wet and wearing nothing but a towel tucked securely around his hips. Illya smirked as he watched Napoleon’s eyes follow a drop of water make its way down his chest and across his abdomen, not bothering to hide the naked desire in his gaze.

“Don’t forget about your custard, Cowboy,” he pointed out with a nod to the bowl in Napoleon’s hands. Napoleon just waggled his eyebrows at being caught and looked back to his work, whisking it a few more times while Illya wandered over to stand behind him and peer over his shoulder. “You never said what this one was going to be.”

“Oh,” Napoleon said, smiling down into the bowl. “Mint julep. Not traditional for gelato, of course, but, well… I was inspired.” He twisted his head back to look at Illya, and really, how was Illya supposed to _not_ kiss him, then? And if Illya also used the kiss as a distraction so he could snag a spoon and dip it in the custard, well, Napoleon should have really seen that coming. He laughed out of the kiss when he realized what Illya was doing, batting his hand away from the bowl. “It still has to churn, you brute.”

“Churn,” Illya repeated, considering the word as he licked the minty, bourbony cream off the spoon. He wasn’t familiar with it in the context of ice cream.

Napoleon pointed to an unassuming cylindrical machine in the corner of the kitchen. “I put it in there and the machine spins it around while it freezes. Then it has to harden in the freezer, which will take longer for this one because of the bourbon.”

“Hmm,” Illya frowned. “How long?”

“Several hours at the very least,” Napoleon told him as he poured the custard into the waiting machine. “And anyway, Peril, don’t you think we should have something besides ice cream for dinner tonight? I was thinking we could pop down to that little Italian place down the road, since I _did_ already spend most of the day cooking.”

“And who’s fault is that, Cowboy?” Illya asked. “No one asked you to make an absurd volume of ice cream today.”

He got an indignant snort in response, as Napoleon was still busy scraping the remnants of the custard out of the bowl, so he took the opportunity to sneak a hand into the freezer and extract the container of passion fruit gelato. Of course ‘sneak’ was a generous term, since Napoleon was standing right there and saw him do it immediately.

“Hey, don’t eat all of that, it’s my favorite!” Napoleon called after him as he fled the kitchen, spoon and ice cream in hand.

Illya ignored him, tucking happily into his prize. After a few moments he heard the sound of a small motor kick on and expected that Napoleon would be coming after him shortly, but surprisingly nothing of the sort happened. He glanced back at the kitchen door, and, seeing no sign of his partner, figured he’d gotten wrapped up in some other cooking task. Really, he should have known better. How had he not been aware that there was another entrance to the living room from the kitchen?

He was so wrapped up in his stolen ice cream that he never saw the tackle coming. Suddenly Napoleon had him by the waist, bodying him over the back of the couch and nearly onto the floor on the other side. Somehow he managed to arrest their tumble _and_ keep ahold of the ice cream, but Napoleon had seized the spoon and was grinning triumphantly as he pinned Illya to the cushions. He made a play to scoop out some of the gelato but Illya stretched his arm over his head, moving it beyond Napoleon's reach.

“What are you going to do with a spoon and no ice cream, Cowboy?” Illya taunted. “Does not seem very useful.”

“What are _you_ going to do without a spoon?” Napoleon shot back.

Illya shrugged as best he could from his position on his back, letting his lips twitch up at the corners mischeviously. As he slowly brought the container back down in front of him he used his index finger to scoop up a glob of the smooth gelato, bringing it up to his lips and sticking it in his mouth. He withdrew the finger slowly, letting it leave his lips with a soft _pop_ and fixing Napoleon with his smuggest, most victorious glare.

Napoleon gaped at him, and then abruptly the ice cream was forgotten about, for a little while at least.

* * *

In the end, they ate ice cream for dinner. Well, ice cream, a half a baguette, and a bit of cheese scrounged from Napoleon’s fridge, which was nearly empty in preparation for their coming mission. Napoleon had sighed and said at least the gelato had fruit and nuts and so really it couldn’t be all that bad. The work involved in getting dressed and going out just did not seem worth the effort, not when they could pass the time instead lounging against each other on the couch, reading or kissing or playing the odd game of chess.

Illya could not remember a time when he’d felt so relaxed or content, hadn’t known it was even possible anymore. It would be alarming if it wasn’t so glaringly _right_ , like the reason he’d always felt a bit unmoored was because he hadn’t spent his life, metaphorically or literally, wrapped in the well-muscled arms of one Napoleon Solo. Numerous practicalities nudged at the edge of his thoughts—how they were going to tell Gaby was one that would have to be dealt with sooner or later—but for now he pushed them out into the blistering early summer sun, letting himself enjoy the paradoxical warmth that surrounded him in Napoleon’s artificially-cooled apartment.

They were reading just then; Illya had pulled a random book of short stories off Napoleon’s shelf and found them only partly able to keep his attention. To be fair, at the moment they were competing with Napoleon’s loose curls, which Illya’s hands seemed to be magnetically drawn to. His partner was reclined against him, legs stretched out on the couch and book cradled in his lap, and it was all Illya could do not to bury his face in Napoleon’s hair. Not that it would be a problem, really, but it seemed like it would be rather more distracting than his hand’s lazy twining.

He did not, however, resist for long when Napoleon came to the end of a chapter and closed the book, leaving it in his lap for a moment as Illya inhaled the scent of his shampoo and kissed the top of his head. Napoleon grinned up at him, tipping his head up and back to steal a kiss before he pushed himself up to standing and headed off to the kitchen. A few moments later he returned with a container and a spoon; the mint julep gelato, Illya realized, finally ready for consumption. Napoleon sat back down on the couch, facing him this time, and held out both to Illya.

“What do you think?” Napoleon asked as he watched Illya take a bite. Illya briefly wondered if he would ever tire of the excited and hopeful look on Napoleon’s face when he presented Illya with some new food to try; he thought not. “Does it remind you of luck and horse racing?”

Illya let the smooth ice cream melt on his tongue, savoring the interplay of mint and bourbon, balanced expertly by Napoleon’s deft hand. It reminded him of southern heat and sunburn, of jubilant celebrations and insane wagers, of bloody suits and ruined ties and the relief of getting out alive, of a mission gone bad at the end of a good day, of a secret bank account designed expressly for him and what it implied. And also luck and horse racing.

He didn’t say all that, though. It was more than he could put into words at the moment, so instead he leaned in and placed a soft kiss on Napoleon’s lips, hoping that would say enough. When he pulled away he smiled broadly, scooped out another bite of the gelato, and added, “Something like that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading my little Derby endulgence. I would love to hear what you thought! Comments are love and help feed my muse! 😊


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